


End of Days

by aus_der_traum



Category: Historical RPF, Third Reich - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Nuremberg, Sexual Content, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 02:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11453778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aus_der_traum/pseuds/aus_der_traum
Summary: Hermann Göring's last thoughts before his suicide.





	End of Days

There are footsteps marching up the corridor. He can feel Goebbels now. In a way his little doctor is more real to him here than he ever was. In these tight sparse cells, scrutinized, caught under glass like some sort of insect or animal on the cusp of vivisection - memories are the only private thing he has left, the only things left to grasp at, the most vivid thing to cling to. 

He knows about the suicides and the-

(children)

-the sacrifices.

In his memory there is a space where they can be alone in the dark and there’s not a damn thing (sanctimonious, smug or brutish) anyone can do about it. His dear visitors, Goebbels’ ghost, Carin’s, Emmy’s, Bruno’s…

He thinks of Bruno, how he would moan in that way he always did when appetite overwhelmed the starchy self control he tried to button up over his uniform. Lovely Bruno, he wonders if he will survive all this – oh he might live of course but what does that mean. Emmy’s perfume and her soft hands and the warmth of her laughter and how that smile will petrify like a scar as she repeats how she never thought a thing about politics and Carin… but he must stop there.

In this isolation he can feel the chill of their breath on his neck, the draught that drifts under these steel doors and over the concrete that brings whispers of his name  
  
Was he surprised that Goebbels stuck to that bunker until the end? He always was a loyal dog; sat up and begged, did as he was told.

(was his hand shaking when he raised the gun, did he kiss little Helga goodbye, where are their precious spirits anyway, are they only being polite children and keeping quite and-)

But no, cling to hot thoughts, like how Goebbels would ride him hard, the way he liked to be ridden. Or squirm as he was pushed facedown on the couch, those features at once harsh and delicate ground into a well upholstered seat. The rough rub of the fabric might not be so different from his prison clothes he thinks as he folds them up under his pillow and dreams about Goebbels’ mouth, his skin. Sometimes these American jailers are dark-eyed boys with pale skin who reminded him of his sparrow but of course they never weep the same way.

He hadn’t planned this sort of ending. What were the last words they had even spoken to each other? He can’t remember now, just a muddled haze of boredom and rage, did someone insinuate the word ‘traitor’? But even when worst came to worst, he always though Goebbels was such fun  _sport._ A worthy foe. It was foreplay wasn’t it? So much anger, such lashings of lust, all lace-corseted beneath the prim exterior Joe fought so hard to hold together despite his reputation. That dignity he killed, as it turned out in the end, to protect.

Emmy had asked him once, close enough it feels it like yesterday.  _How is Joseph?_ _Still trailing at your heels, wistfully hoping you’ll throw him a bone? He’d suck you off a pfennig, you know. In fact he’d probably pay you for the privilege._

Poor lovesick Joseph. Searching for answers through kisses, hoping no doubt to smell or taste what would make him whole. He was disappointed, of course. Was there any more answer in the last kiss he gave Magda goodbye? 

Perhaps. Or perhaps he’d like to hope there’s no truth to be found in some final kiss he hasn’t been granted permission to taste himself.   
  
Goebbels never really did admit how much, how hard, he liked it. The leash he made of his hair, the marks he left with his teeth. Had Goebbels been his mistress, things might have been different between them. But that sort of behaviour isn’t up to scratch, is it, in a man?   
  
It’s almost time to go. Being haunted has its attractions but he’s tired of ghosts, now, here, at the end. He craves touch but there’s not much of that to be had here, just the abrasion of hostile eyes and foreign whispers and the occasional dart and dash of longings too painful to contemplate.

When the glass crushes between his teeth the bitterness on his tongue reminds him of the way Goebbels used to speak his name and he knows; he is not haunted at all, just expected.

_

**Author's Note:**

> For more nazi fic curated by the Baldur von Schirach Society for Poetic Souls (BvSSfPS) go to [aus-der-traum.tumblr.com](https://aus-der-traum.tumblr.com)


End file.
